Nooshin Beik of Aliso Viejo, center in white shirt, rappels down a huge and deep crack in Chambers Canyon in Utah. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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Nooshin Beik of Aliso Veijo wades through a deep pool in Chambers Canyon in Utah. DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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From left, Nooshin Beik of Aliso Viejo, Ali Samsami of Lake Forest and Dennis George of Aliso Viejo hike out after descending Chambers Canyon in Utah. DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Dennis George of Aliso Viejo wades through a deep pool in Chambers Canyon in Utah. DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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From left, Ali Samsami of Lake Forest, Nooshin Beik of Aliso Viejo, Dennis George of Aliso Viejo and columnist David Whiting celebrate after canyoneering for several days in Utah. DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Columnist David Whiting, upper center in white shirt, rappels down a huge and deep crack in Chambers Canyon in Utah. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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Ali Samsami of Lake Forest hikes out after descending Chambers Canyon in Utah. DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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A poster warns canyoneers in the Robbers Roost area Utah: "You are entirely on your own when you hike in this area, and you should be physically and technically prepared for self rescue." DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

I shake my head, figuring there’s little danger until we arrive at the first rappel. “Let’s wait until we have to commit.”

A half-hour later, we descend into the wide opening of Chambers Canyon and practically skip along a sandy streambed. But abruptly the streambed ends in a deep hole. Just beyond is a vertical opening 20 feet tall, 9 inches wide – and so narrow it barely allows sunlight.

I’m reminded of a poster that warns canyoneers: “You are entirely on your own … in this area and you should be physically and technically prepared for self rescue.”

George looks at me; Nooshin Beik, a vice president at Burnham Benefits in Irvine; and Ali Samsami, project manager for C.J. Light and Associates, a Newport Beach architectural firm.

George announces, “It’s time to decide.”

FLASH FLOOD WARY

We are in the middle of canyon country, otherwise known as the Colorado Plateau, an area that offers some of the best canyoneering in the world.

The reasons are simple. First, the area is covered with huge sedimentary rock deposits. Second, it’s rained here for eons and where there’s water there’s erosion.

Visit Utah or Arizona and you see erosion on a massive scale. The Grand Canyon is one example. Canyonlands National Park is another, as is Zion. But where we are is different. There are no campsites, no bathrooms, no potable water. Instead of rangers, RVs and crowds, the experience is off-trail, primitive, demanding.

It’s also thrilling.

But enjoying life on the edge is about managing risk. Along with extra food, water, gear, there is good reason why none of us are in this canyon alone. We want to live.

If one of us gets stuck, it’s likely our team can free that person. If we fail, someone can stay behind with the injured while others seek help.

But my worry is less about getting stuck than drowning. On his website, CanyoneeringUSA.com, expert Tom Jones, explains flash-flood dangers this way: “The storm drops a very large amount of water over a small area, in a small time. These storms commonly drop up to four inches of rain in 15 minutes.

“Runoff collects in gulleys,” Jones reports, “which lead to washes that lead to canyons. Because water runs faster when deeper, the water collects into a bit of a leading wave. Downcanyon, we hapless hikers are trapped.

“Death or discomfort occurs.”

I examine the thunderheads that nearly surround us, just as they have for the past several days. Most are a long way off. The darkest, however, heads our way.

Beik casually says, “Let’s go.”

TOTAL COMMITMENT

George sets up an anchor for the rope and disappears into the void. Beik follows, then Samsami, Beik’s childhood friend. I go last to ensure that they set up the rope correctly and clean the anchor.

Knowing we’re at the slot’s mouth and still have time to retreat, I review the clouds one last time. The dark one dumping rain is sweeping relatively far west, which also happens to be downstream. I rappel down and coil the rope.

For the next several hours, we will be trapped.

We make our way down the narrow canyon by turning sideways and jamming our heels against one wall and our toes against the opposite wall. We use our hands to push ourselves along and keep from falling.

The deeper we go, the more I consider the volume of water needed to fill a 9-inch-wide canyon compared to a canyon several yards wide. But a loud yelp breaks my thoughts.

Turning on a chockstone to start her second rappel, Beik loses her balance and plunges head-first into darkness. She slams horizontal, wedged between two canyon walls.

Before I can assess Beik’s injuries, she twists to insist she’s fine and says she doesn’t want help. She wriggles her shoulders and claws herself upright, extricating herself from the crevasse. Within minutes, Beik works her way down, deeper.

After much pushing, squirming and – somehow – rappelling, the four of us meet in the first chamber. It’s the size of a small walk-in closet. Raindrops start to fall. They splatter on dry sandstone and turn tan striations dark brown.

No one says a word.

Ten minutes later, the rain stops and immediately we agree that we knew it would, laughing at our own silliness. Then we hit the next rappel. But after we descend, the rope gets stuck. The four of us tug, yank, pull. Nothing.

Someone will have to climb back up without the protection of a lifeline.

As George prepares to go up, I try a technique that sometimes works – and sometimes doesn’t. I flip the end of the rope repeatedly, sending a series of waves. No movement. Then little by little, the rope starts to loosen. Finally, I hold the entire rope.

We rappel, plunge into a cold pool and emerge onto the floor of a canyon large enough for a small village. We hike out by pressure walking sandstone slabs and my mind turns to what I’ve just seen:

Beik’s tumble and her calm determination to rescue herself; four humans, fragile as flesh and bone, making their way through the seemingly impossible.

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